People of Lot
by The Eternal Noob
Summary: The Templars believe they can demoralize the Hashashin by humiliating their finest. But a live Assassin is a dangerous Assassin no matter how injured, and Malik al-Sayf has a white feather with a Templar's life to be marked on it in blood. Alt/Mal.
1. Chapter 1: Masyaf

**People of Lot**

**Chapter One: Masyaf**

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* * *

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Will ye commit abomination knowingly? Must ye needs lust after men instead of women? Nay, but ye are folk who act senselessly.

-Qu'ran 27:54-55

* * *

He was crossing blades with Altaïr in the training ring when the novice came in-not calling, as if he feared disrupting their practice, but instead hovering about the edge like a nervous yearling and trying to catch Malik's eye.

Of course, al-Sayf ignored him. The match would be halted if one of the participants was called away, but first, the young man would have to speak up. So Malik brought his sword up to follow a sweeping arc of Altaïr's, which he suspected the other had purposefully made wide as an attempt to bait him into a rash strike. There was a dagger waiting for him in Altaïr's other hand, but Malik knocked it aside with his own and brought his sword down to rest against Altaïr's neck even as the man twisted his wrist to flick the tip of the short blade up against Malik's abdomen.

The two paused. Close, so close that Malik could see the sweat dripping down the other man's temples, dampening the hood he'd elected to wear into the sparring ring. Altaïr's breath was harsh with exertion, as Malik knew was true of his own; and the man's robes were covered with dust and flecked with smudges of dirt. There was one spot that was almost worn through, ringed with frayed uncolored thread, on the shoulder just peeking out from beneath the stained leather strap holding the short sword's sheath in place. The hood did nothing to hide Altaïr's face at this distance, stubborn, line of his jaw set in defiance as it tended to be when Altaïr was feeling competitive.

"A tie," proclaimed the Son of None.

"I think not. My sword through your neck would kill you much faster than your knife through my stomach."

"You're still dead."

"That might be debatable. People have lived through stomach wounds."

"Not mine."

"There's always a first."

"E-excuse me?" came a cautious voice from outside the ring. The two men paused, glancing over. Altaïr scowled, the novice flinched, and Malik rolled his eyes. He and ibn la-Ahad had been friends for many a season, and he knew for a fact that the latter did not deserve the awe and terror with which some of the younger Assassins seemed to regard him.

"Yes?" Altaïr grumbled.

The novice's eyes darted between him and Malik, indecisive. "Master Awad has sent for Master al-Sayf. He says he has an assignment for him, from Al-Mualim."

"Then I'll go find him immediately." Malik answered, louder than he needed to be, resisting the childish urge to send one of his throwing knives spinning by the young man's ear just to see him jump.

* * *

"Kill Olivier de Blanchefort when he re-enters Tyre after his trip to Ashkelon. His intended residence has been shrouded in secrecy, though our informers may have uncovered the information by the time you reach the city."

"If the rafiq doesn't know, and should I be unable to find the information myself..."

"The man's death is to be a statement. If you cannot find his residence, make it public."

The assassin bowed his head in aquiescence. "It will be done."

* * *

Malik was in the stables, strapping his saddlebags onto a chestnut gelding, when Altaïr tracked him down. It had been still and peaceful. Dust motes glinted in streams of sunlight shining through slats in the stone wall; the whole building smelled like the animals it housed, and the sounds of life in Masyaf were occasional, far away, and muted. Once in awhile one of the horses would snort or stamp, and at certain times the youngest students would be found there working; but when empty, it was oft possible to forget that the rest of the world existed. It was likely for this reason that Altaïr chose to wait for Malik in that particular place, wary as he was of stray ears even amongst his allies and aware that at this time of day it was both private and accessible. Just as Malik was reaching out to retrieve the horse's bridle from where he'd slung it over the stall door, he heard the voice.

"I hear you've been sent to Tyre."

Malik sighed, not bothering to look over. "Men hear many things when they _eavesdrop_."

Altaïr did not respond to that. "They told you very little."

Malik tugged the bridle over the chestnut's ears and raised an eyebrow at the man that had appeared outside the door. "I assume the rafiq in Acre is more knowledgeable-and if not, I _am _capable of finding information for myself, though your new robes may have allowed you to forget that."

"I don't think you're incapable."

"Just not as capable as you are in swordplay unless you're recovering from the plague. Don't answer, I know you think it. You are free to _think _as you will." Malik rested one hand on the horse's shoulder. "How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Fine."

Malik snorted. The man would never say anything else.

There was a long silence. A shadow passed over the sun, and Malik saw Altaïr move closer. The air was dark and thick with sawdust. It was dark, dark as the shadowed evenings in which the deadly elements moved. They made their lives in unmentionable acts, those faithful to the foundation, and perhaps it made sense that behind thick-drawn blinds and below rocky cliffs, far from any prying eyes, they committed even more. Altaïr's palms were cool and callused, surprisingly light on Malik's cheek. His lips were chapped, and Malik could feel the rough line of the scar that cut into his mouth. Malik reached up and pushed Altaïr's hood back, as if unveiling a woman. _Do not speak, _a voice at the back of his brain seemed to proclaim; _make no sound._ His breath was shallow; the rise and fall of his own chest seemed ludicrously pronounced. With hard fingers he cupped the back of Altaïr's skull, feeling the hair, the tender yielding skin of his neck damp with sweat.

Then there was the soft _whish _of a foot stepping on to hay, and Malik bit back a surprised oath. He pushed Altaïr away and turned back to the saddlebags; in an instant Altaïr had vanished, crouching in the shadows in the northwest corner of the stall. Ears peeled, they both listened as the unidentified intruder padded away from them, towards the harness room; the footsteps faded away but soon returned with an added rustle and metallic clink, as if the person was leaving with a saddle or bridle. Then they were gone. It had been less than a minute.

Slowly, Malik relaxed. Altaïr stood up, tension remaining in the lines of his body.

It would not bode well for them if they were caught. There had been two men three years ago, Malik and doubtless Altaïr remembered, convicted of homosexual acts and hung. The way the two lovers' bodies had twitched, tongues lolling distended from purpling mouths, eyes bulging like to burst from their sockets, was not an image to be quickly forgotten. Not for them, at least. "They commit unnatural acts, separating themselves from God and those who work for Him!" the short, swarthy Christian standing on the scaffold beside the condemned had shouted. "Let no virtuous man allow such abominations to occur in a city of God!" In his life Malik had never known or heard of any of... _his _type among the Brotherhood save Altaïr; as such he had no idea what sanctions might be taken against them should they be discovered. But he foresaw their names becoming laughingstock in any case, and that threat gave more pause than the possibility of dying ever could among men such as themselves.

Altaïr had slid away from the wall like a detaching shadow, maneuvering carefully around the horse's flanks and coming once more to stand before Malik, who cleared his throat.

"Try not to get yourself killed while you're in Masyaf. If you get sick again it'll probably kill you."

"It will not be an issue." Altaïr replied flatly.

"You might also consider attempting to acquire a sense of humor." Malik smirked. "It'd be good for you."

"I _have_ a sense of humor."

"Really? Then I think you're doing an unsurpassable job of pretending you don't."

"Pretending?" Altaïr laughed, a refreshingly real sound, and the kiss he pressed on Malik was the lightest brush of lips.

They paused.

"I have to go," Malik voiced eventually, taking hold of the horse's reins.

"I know." Altaïr frowned. "But before you leave-I heard some things about this Olivier de Blanchefort the last time I was in Acre. It's said he's a Frankish weapons dealer with extensive connections amongst the Knights Templar and Hospitalier. The mercenaries say he is vain and quick to anger, and miserly besides; if his men bear so little appreciation for him, it may be possible to buy them out or otherwise keep them out of the way. It's also said that he lacks much fighting ability of his own, being weak of constitution. For safety, it might be wise to come upon him when he is alone; if he is as personally weak as it's said, he's likely to put up little fight-"

"-Altaïr." Malik cut him off mid-sentence, a note of warning in his voice. _"Do_ _not_ advise me on basic strategy like a novice."

Ibn La-Ahad's face darkened in irritation at the reprimand. "It was not my intention."

"It is true that your rank is higher than mine, but that _does not _make me some sort of cripple."

"What do you want me to say, Malik?"

"Nothing. I would just like it if you'd understand that." With a glance towards the doorway al-Sayf reached out and grasped Altaïr's arm. "I have to leave now if I intend to make any headway before nightfall, but I'd rather not depart in anger. I do thank you for the information, Altaïr."

The other assassin bowed his head. "I am sorry if I insulted you."

"It is forgiven," Malik replied with a half-smile, releasing Altaïr's arm. "Safety and peace, my brother."

"Safety and peace, Malik."

* * *

Terms and References:

"People of Lot" refers to 'quam Lut', a derogatory Arabic term for 'homosexual' that references the Qu'ranic story of Lot (Lut), Sodom, and Gomorrah.

"Those faithful to the foundation" refers to the word 'assassiyoon' or 'asasiyun', which several modern scholars have argued to be the origin of the term 'assassin'. As Amin Maalouf notes in his book, _Samarkand_:

"[...] their contemporaries in the Muslim world would call them _hash-ishiyun_, 'hashish-smokers'; some orientalists thought that this was the origin of the word 'assassin', which in many European languages was more terrifying yet. ...The truth is different. According to texts that have come down to us from Alamut, Hassan-i Sabbah liked to call his disciples Asasiyun, meaning people who are faithful to the _Asās_, meaning 'foundation' of the faith. This is the word, misunderstood by foreign travelers, that seemed similar to 'hashish'."

I should note that the 'foundation' or 'faith' in question is Nizari Ismailism, a branch of Shi'a Islam which seems to be all but irrelevant to the Assassins of Assassin's Creed who fight for the nebulous 'peace'; so it's not really accurate to refer to any of the AssCreed assassins as 'those faithful to the foundation'. But, I'm using a little literary license here; the 'foundation' could just as easily be the Creed as it could be Ismailism, for the purposes of fanfic.


	2. Chapter 2: Tyre Bureau

**People of Lot**

**Chapter Two: Tyre Bureau**

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"We don't want yellow cowards in this Army. They should be killed off like rats. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the Goddamned cowards and we will have a nation of brave men."

-George S. Patton

* * *

Malik slipped into Tyre on the back of a wagon, hidden behind bolts of fabric, fine linens and embroidery, incense, stacks of ivory and ebony belonging to a merchant coming from Al-`Ula. In the bustle of the commercial center it was easy enough to disappear without anyone noticing him, and once away he fairly flew across the rooftops, invisible to the crowds below. Giving the archers stationed on the rooftops a wide berth, he made for the bureau, reveling in the open air on his face, the scrape of stone and mortar on his palms, the hot race of blood in his veins as he launched himself from one building to catch the outside of a screened balcony projecting from another. He curled his fingers about a post and swung, using his own weight to swing himself onto the next roof-and he wouldn't care to admit it, but this, much more than the prestige, was why he preferred to be an assassin-the freedom of having such control over his body that he could catapult it across cities at a moment's notice, with little need to fear blowing his cover...

Unfortunately, he thought as the bureau came in sight, he was about two days late. Torrential summer rains had washed out part of the road from Masyaf, and the roads near Antelias and Tripoli had been swarming with hostile soldiers. If Olivier de Blanchefort had left on schedule, and there was no reason to believe he had not, Malik had only one or two days before the assassination was supposed to take place. Perhaps less, if the Frank had made good time on the road. Hopefully the bureau knew more than he did about the target and the area, because that left him no room whatsoever for eventualities. If they did not know de Blanchefort's residence he needed to at least know what the man looked like, and where he would be entering the city; then once he'd determined where to strike he'd need to leave and scout escape routes without letting the guards on to the presence of an assassin.

"Safety and peace, _rafiq,"_ he stated when he walked into the bureau.

"Safety and peace," the grey-bearded man wearing dark robes behind the counter replied, looking up and taking in Malik's white robes and hood. "Ah... are you here for the Frankish Olivier de Blanchefort's life?"

"Yes. I want to know if you have any more information than was sent in the missive."

"That we do. He's to be staying in the house of Hugues de Montblanc, near the water. Let me show you a map..." the _rafiq_ leaned over, with less difficulty than Malik might have expected given his age, and rummaged around under the desk. "Hm, hm... ah. Here."

He emerged and unrolled a length of parchment across the counter next to the reports.

"There," he said, pointing to an area southwest of the bay. "This house, if I'm not mistaken."

"Thank you," said Malik, looking at the black rectangle. The map, he thought, looked old and off-scale from what he'd seen of the city. He'd taken quite a shine to mathematics when he was young, and from there had progressed to cartography. Map-making was perhaps not the most prestigious skill an assassin could have, but it was certainly useful. "Do you know anything else?"

"Little." The _rafiq _shook his head. "The informers in Acre say he's sickly, and known for his poor temper. One of our, ah, females-" the man's lips quirked almost apologetically, "-Has been here for the past week, and she overheard Hugues de Montblanc's servants complaining about Olivier staying on the first floor; _they've _heard that he was stricken with the ague in Ashkelon, and they fear a deadly miasma coming with him and his retinue. We, however, have heard nothing else of ague, in Ashkelon or elsewhere."

"Then I hope there was none." Malik rubbed his temples. "The first floor... What does this man look like?"

"Dark hair. Light eyes. The informers say he's pale, but after the ride here he'll probably be quite sunburnt. A thick, curly beard and moustache. Typical height."

"Ah." Distinctive enough, he hoped. "And he will arrive..."

"Early on the morrow, last we heard."

"Thank you." He bowed his head. "Your information has been a great help."

"You're welcome. If you're planning to go out and scout, you might take the youngster in the back room with you. His name is Hamal; Masyaf sent him here for a spell to learn assassinship by running errands. Odd youngster, but," the _rafiq's _face softened, "Not a bad one. Our woman had him run messages back and forth while she was watching the house, he can show you where it is."

Again, Malik nodded. "Thank you. I think I'll take you up on that suggestion."

"Safety and peace."

* * *

"Your mark will be staying there, sir," the young student pointed out later, subdued and stiffly formal, "In the house of Hugues de Montbard."

It was an unassuming building, two stories tall, four sides centered around a courtyard from which Malik saw what was presumably smoke from a cooking fire rising. The place looked old, the adobe cracked in places. Rust-colored water stains ran down from the gutters, and the shadowed windows had taken on a sunken appearance not unlike that of an old, sickly man. From the size of the place, Malik guessed it played host to many more than one knight.

"How many live there?"

"Montbard has a wife, a son, and two daughters. The women live in the northern quarter year-round. He also keeps a maid and two manservants-their quarters are on the eastern side, above the horses-and has quite a number of people regularly coming in and out. We don't know what business they come on." The young man shifted uncomfortably, gazing at the house.

"Do you know what room the target will be staying in?"

"No, sir. I could ask the _rafiq._"

"Hm."

The assassin looked at the shuttered windows, the door, the courtyard, and decided that it would be easier to strike before Olivier de Blanchefort and his men reached the house. The city, at least, was a mass of handholds and alleyways that would make it easier for him to put a blade through the man's throat and disappear; inside a man's home there was little room to move, and the civilians encountered would be nearly as frustrating as the guards themselves, since a man of the Creed could not put his blade to them and they would immediately know to raise the alarm upon seeing him.

"...Sir?" The younger assassin was staring awkwardly down into the street, blankly following Malik's gaze for seemingly no reason other than not knowing where else to look. He was _young, _thirteen or perhaps fourteen years old, with pimples on his pockmarked face and a spate of dark hairs between his eyebrows; the robes he wore were too big, hanging limp from thin shoulders.

"Yes?" Malik continued to study the streets, committing shaded courtyards and gardens that could be used as short-term hiding places to memory.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Then I suppose I'll be making my way back..."

"Go ahead." The assassin glanced back as the youth stood and trotted away, his shoulders hunched under the bright glare of the sun. A nervous one, Malik thought, pityingly or compassionately, he didn't know which. The youngster would probably be set at some sedentary job back in the stronghold if he didn't lose that disposition. Anxiousness was anything but desirable in an assassin.

* * *

It was difficult to remember, but Malik was fairly certain that he had killed his first man at the age of fifteen; perhaps sixteen. His name was Abu Faisal Essam al-Fakih ibn Kardal al-Dimashq... or was that ibn Qadir? Abu Faruq? The son's name had started with _f__ā__'_, he was rather sure of that...

He knew it was Damascus, though. The man, soft, middle-aged, and packing fat around the middle that he layered over with opulent viridian robes, had not stood a chance. Malik had come upon him at high noon, standing in the courtyard of his home. The man had been lost in thought, leaning against the wall with his knuckles pressed against his lips. His eyes were unfocused. He did not stir as the inexperienced assassin climbed down from the roof, silent as a cat, and crept toward him. Only when Malik ran him through did he jerk in surprise, his mouth falling open-uselessly, for Malik had clamped a hand over his mouth. His eyes rotated to regard his killer as his head relaxed against the youth's shoulder, in a parody of an embrace.

Feeling the eyes of one of his instructors upon him, Malik twisted his sword in the man's guts, and raked up.

He felt the resistance on his sword, the effort it took to drive the steel through muscle and flesh, and swallowed the bile in his throat. When he laid the man on the ground and fumbled for the white feather at his belt, he found that his hands were shaking. Then, even though no alarm had been raised, he ran like a madman. Kneeling in a garden on one of the rooftops, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, seeing the dead man's pursuit in every ripple of the curtains.

"You did well," the instructor told him later, clapping him on the shoulder. Then, he said, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Malik replied, bowing his head.

"Many men make themselves sick after their first. You did not."

"I did not need to." The younger assassin studied his sword-hand, crusted as it was in dark brown blood. Abu Faisal Essam al-Fakih ibn Kardal-or-whatever-his-name-was al-Dimashq was a qadi, who had ordered the execution of a family who had been suspected of associating with the Assassins-husband, wife, children. Even the chickens had been strangled in their coop. Documents bearing their names had been defaced; their posessions had been thrown on the street, to be snatched up by beggars and passerby within the hour. As a student of the Creed, he did not regret killing the man in return.

* * *

Dusk was falling fast when Malik returned to the bureau, but the _rafiq _was nowhere to be found. Malik searched through the building, growing concerned-years past their physical prime and responsible for the whole clan's base of operations in the city they were posted in, it was not _normal _for bureau leaders to simply be gone after dark. After looking into all the rooms, the assassin returned to the front. The young man from earlier was there, dozing in a corner, his hood pushed back and his head pillowed on his arms; his pocked face wore the slack expression of one dead to the world. He jerked when Malik shook him awake, sat up wildly, unfocused eyes flying open, and gasped, "I wasn't sleeping!"

Malik stood back and snorted, waiting for the boy's eyes to focus on him before he spoke. "Where is _rafiq _Salah?"

"I, I, I don't know," the novice stammered, voice slurred with sleep. "He wasn't here when I got back!"

"And when was this?"

"An hour ago? I think?" the young man scrambled to answer.

"Was he here when you returned before?"

"Before? What?"

"You said," Malik informed the youth patiently, "That you intended to return to the bureau after you had shown me my target's location. Unless you then went somewhere else and tarried for several hours before returning, you must have come back earlier and gone out again; it doesn't take half a day to reach this place."

"Ah... I... oh. _Oh. _Yes. Sorry." A bright red flush crept down the boy's neck. "He was here earlier. He, um, he sent me to carry a message to one of the safehouses. Sir."

"And he was not here when you got back."

"Yes, sir."

"Did he say anything about intending to leave before you left?"

"No, sir."

"Absolutely nothing which might have indicated a _need_ for him to leave?"

"Nothing, sir." The boy twisted the hem of his robe, staring anxiously up at the older assassin.

That was troubling. Malik frowned as he regarded the novice, thinking-perhaps the _rafiq _had just stepped out for a moment, been delayed, somehow, and made his way to one of the safe-houses. But perhaps someone had identified him as an Assassin in the market. Old as he was, the man would not be able to run or put up a fight...

"What do you intend to do, sir...?" The novice asked, hesitant, regarding his elder and superior with wide eyes.

"There's not much to be done..." Al-Sayf said slowly. He glanced at the desk, no longer cluttered with reports and accounts, only bearing a few quills and a bottle of ink as evidence of the _rafiq's _earlier presence. Night was falling fast outside, the sky already dotted with innumerable points of light; he'd have to make rounds of the safehouses, taking hours at best and risking both his and their discovery; and it was by no means unheard of for assassins to occasionally disappear for a night or so, forced undercover by some unforeseen circumstance. And there was Olivier de Blanchefort, whom he needed to kill the next day...

"Will you... stay here, then?"

Malik looked at the young man. The student swallowed and bit his lip, staring at the ground. "I could, I could go and ask the safehouse if the message said anything..."

"No." The assassin shook his head, untied his sword from his belt, and sat down against the far wall, making up his mind. "If the _rafiq _knew in advance that he would be gone and needed someone to know about it, he would tell them; and if the message was not meant for your eyes the safehouse would not tell you what it said anyway. Stay here, get some sleep. That's the best you can do."

"I'm sorry..."

"Why would you be?" Al-Sayf leaned back and closed his eyes. "There's no reason to apologize for the truth. You simply have to deal with it."

The young man was silent for several minutes, but Malik could tell from the way his breathing did not slow and deepen that he had not gone back to sleep; indeed, from the fact that he'd heard none of the rustling that would come with the boy lying back down, he expected that the other was still watching him, silent and rather unnerving.

"What?" he said, finally, opening his eyes to confirm what his instincts had told him.

"Nothing," the novice said quickly, flopping down on his cushions. Malik raised one eyebrow, but saw no reason to belabor the issue. He had closed his eyes again and was beginning to doze off when he heard the sudden, defiant whisper:

"What if the truth is that you are an _abomination?"_

_"What?" _The assassin opened his eyes and stared. "An-"

"Like, a _harami," _the young man hastened to add, his ears turning puce under his superior's scrutiny.

"Many of your brothers are bastard children..." Malik said slowly, studying the youngster, who fidgeted and attempted to look rebellious under his gaze. "Their parentage does none of them any dishonor."

"And what of a person who... who..."

"Who _what?"_

"A person who shouldn't exist!" The youngster burst out, his hands curling into fists on his knees.

"I believe the imam would tell you that there _is _no such thing," The elder assassin replied, watching the young man pluck angrily at the threads of his sleeves. That word, _abomination... _"He'd say that no-one comes onto this earth cursed by Allah..."

"But your own choices make you so cursed. Pride is the death of submission." They were not the boy's words.

"Pride and other things." Malik tilted his head. "If you refuse to tell me what ails you, there is little counsel I can give. You could speak to your instructor, perhaps..."

"Nothing ails me." The boy glared at his hands, pushing out his lower lip and sinking his teeth deep into it.

"Nothing," Al-Sayf said flatly, looking at the youth, who would not meet his eyes. "Am I to assume, then, that you were keeping me awake for-what, a personal amusement?"

"No!" The boy paled. "I was just... ill. Forgive me, Master al-Sayf, please. I will disrupt your rest no more."

Malik sighed.

"Then, if you refuse to speak of whatever it is, a word of caution." The young man did not look up, but the assassin could tell from the way he stilled that he was listening. "If you cannot afford for anyone to know what you speak of, do not reference it so carelessly. You live amongst people trained to ferret out secrets; if you speak to too many the way you have with me here, someone will have it out within a month. I will not tell your instructors what you've said without good reason, because I believe that people should be allowed their secrets if no harm is done by them; but others will not be so kind. You must decide whether you wish to let people know on your own terms or keep your secret close to your heart, but you _cannot _do both, do you understand?"

The novice nodded mutely.

"Good. Then I suggest you get some sleep."

* * *

Notes and References:

1. One of the differences between Christianity and Islam lies in the fact that Christian theology is heavily steeped in the doctrine of original sin, whereas in the Qu'ran, God sends Adam and Eve to earth to live and die as punishment for eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge-but forgives them later, stating that "On earth will be your dwelling-place and your means of livelihood,- for a time... Therein shall ye live, and therein shall ye die; but from it shall ye be taken out at last." (Qu'ran 7:24-25) Thus, rather than being born under the weight of the first humans' sin, people are naturally born into a state of 'Al-Fitra'-a sinless state of submission to God. Hence, Malik's comment that nobody is born cursed by Allah. This sinless submission is undermined by human pride and vanity, hence the "Pride is the death of submission" reply.

2. The letter of the Arabic alphabet which is usually transliterated as an 'f' is called ' fā' '. "Abu", in a name, means "Father of _"; thus, "Abu Faisal" means "Father-of-Faisal". "Dimashq" is another way to pronounce "Damascus".

3. A qadi is a judge.

* * *

Wow, I sure took my own freakin' time on this chapter, and y'all have my sincere apologies. I am currently in the midst of one of the heaviest homework surges in the recorded history of this school year, which tends to put large gaps in between the times I have to really sit down and write; and unfortunately, gaps like that have a tendency to make me forget what themes I've been attempting to work with, impeding progress until it's embarassingly slow, and quality until I start wondering why I thought I was capable of writing in the first place. I think the next update (where things will actually happen) _should _come within the next two weeks, though it may take longer if college applications become more time-consuming than I've estimated they'll be.

Finally, any kind of feedback, especially constructive criticism, would be greatly appreciated. :) I take it as a huge compliment for someone to take the time to tell me something they think I could improve upon-after all, that implies that my writing isn't _totally _hopeless. :P


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